What you are in the Dark
by Penkind Queerowl
Summary: Boggarts represent a person's greatest fears. For those who fought Lord English and remade the Universe, Fear is something familiar, like an old friend. But it is deeper, much more then those that could be called their peers. When you've fought the eldritch terrors beyond the Veil and seen your friends die, clowns just don't seem as frightening.
1. A Knight Protects

A/N: So! My name is Penkind and these are my stories. This is mostly a mirror of the story by the same name on Archiveofourown. I've decided to try and broaden my audience in my growing attempt to build a solid platform for which I will eventually market my novel. If I ever finish it. And if I don't finish it, and I have no novel to market, then at the very least I will have broadened my audience for my fanfiction.

What is 'What you are in the Dark'? It's a story about Boggarts! A collection of short stories about Boggarts is marginally more accurate. Boggarts are great. Fears are great. I find them a brilliant tool for characterisation, and that's ultimately what I wanted to achieve here. This started as an experiment and became one of my best pieces.

I should probably warn you. This gets pretty sad.

* * *

"Alright Dave, your turn!" The Professor calls out, all shabby robes and weathered face. He's aged, Time isn't kind to anyone but it seems to have a vendetta against him. You'd know all about Time's Vendetta, because it seems to hate you above all, doesn't it? Pointless thoughts are shaken from your head because you are Dave Strider, and Strider's are cool. Cold. Like blocks of ice shaved to human form. Blocks of awesome ice.

You are Dave Strider, and you are about to face your greatest fear. Whatever that is. You never really spent much time wondering what your greatest fear was. If you did, you'd certainly never tell anyone. That would be the epitome of uncool, and Strider's were the coolest. But that wasn't to say you didn't have fears. You had a lot of them, actually. You feared your friends dying (permanently), you feared your Bro dying (again). You feared Li'l Cal but everyone who had a shred of sanity in their skull feared Li'l Cal. That... thing was a soulless monster, and you had felt vindicated when it was revealed that it was the vessel for Lord English.

But you weren't sure which of those you feared most, if any were indeed your greatest fear. Enough mental gymnastics Dave, time to make it or break it. You step forward, and the others step back. What was originally what appeared to be some sort of zombie, stares at you. There's the

**CRACK**

you've come to associate with the change and

Bro.

He looks... fine? You can't see any blood. He's alive. Healthy. Alive and staring at you. Your Bro. Alive. Not Dirk, but Bro. Dirk is Bro but he's not, really, at the same time, and you can't hate him for that, that'd be wrong, but it still irks you because he looks like him but he's not at the same time and he probably never will be. You're digressing, you do that. Bro gives you a disinterested look behind pointy shades and a part of you just melts because it's so Bro.

You want to hug him but you don't because you're a Strider. "The hell, little man?" He says, and his tone is... disappointed. You've never heard him be disappointed before. He crosses his arms blankly at you, the faint splotch of oh god no. You can hear some of the other students gasp and take steps back because there's blood, blooming like a scarlet rose on the white of his shirt. "I thought I raised you better than this." His skin is paling rapidly, and the blood rose is getting bigger and a little part of says it's not real but it feels real, it looks real.

Davesprite's memories are your memories and although they kind of swim in your head in a way you find odd (you were a Time Travelling Not-Hero who Saved the Universe, you could deal with it), you know them like the back of your hand. You can remember in perfect, horrible clarity, watching the blade slide through Bro's chest.

You can remember the way he fell to the ground, the way dread and fear filled your chest and it's all coming back right now and it hurts.

It's just a Boggart you say to yourself, and raise your wand but then it changes with a

**CRACK **

and it's not Bro anymore. You can't tell if looking into Rose's hollow eyes are any worse. "You left me behind." She says quietly, and there's a martini glass in her hand and a Thorn of Oglogoth in the other, and it hurts your heart because you're sorry, you couldn't take her with you and you wanted to so badly. Your wand is raised now and all you have to do is say the words, cast the spell and this is over and you will do it because you are a Strider and you won't be broken by anything, you survived Jack Noir, you survived Lord English, you survived SBURB and you will blow this away.

**CRACK**

John hovers before you in his Heir of Breath outfit, and it's not disappointment in his face, it's disgust and it cuts through you so sharply you don't even have the composure to keep the hurt from your face. "What the hell are you doing Dave, playing at being a Hero?" He sneers, and the expression is so John and the words are too he'd never say this to you, though, never because you were bestest bros forever but it hurts hurts hurts and it won't stop

**CRACK**

Jade's ears flicker and the way she snarls at you reminds you of that devilbeast Bec, white teeth bared at you angrily. "Gryffindor is the House of the Brave, Fuckass!" What the hell are you doing in there? You wondered yourself and that's probably why the Boggart is telling you this, because you were never a real Hero and John should've been in Gryffindor, not you, you belonged in Hufflepuff or something. "Riddikulus." You bite out the words, trembling with something you haven't felt in a long time.

This isn't fear, not the way you remember it, this is terror. Creeping up your spine and winding around your limbs. 'Jade' hits the ground, snoozing lightly, tail wagging. You always thought her narcolepsy was cute.

Everyone is silent behind you and Professor Lupin says nothing when you turn around and leave the class.

You need some time alone.


	2. A Page Serves the Knight

The closet rattles and rocks, and everyone stands back, murmuring quietly, curious and unsure. Idiots, you think. It's not the first time you find Snape's words of wisdoms ringing in your thinkpan - __Dunderheads__. It's a lovely word, not one you'd use often, but the vitriol that it drips with is perfect to describe the fellow students in Gryffindor.

Your name is Karkat Vantas, and you waiting for your supplementary Defence against the Dark Arts class to begin.

You hate this class, much like you hate every other class and just about everyone else in this stupid school. Who named a school after Oinkbeast Skinbuttons? Idiots did, so clearly, idiots had founded this wretched place. The fantastical racism within 'magical' society wasn't much better. Most of the humans considered trolls 'subhuman' and nothing more than primitive beasts, but you thought they were a bunch of bulgesniffing nooknozzles and often informed them as such. You weren't the only Troll to inform anyone who dared to deride them that they wouldn't take their shit. You aren't aware of the specifics but Eridan had apparently come within inches of killing one of his fellow Slytherins for even __thinking __that Feferi was anything less than nobility after she was sorted into Hufflepuff.

Apparently he no longer required his 'Empiricist's Wand' to channel raw Hope.

The older Gryffindor's had excitedly informed you that Professor Lupin's class was 'absolutely super'. You didn't really put much stock into morons, but the general air of enthusiasm was infectious. Like a disease, really. Unfortunately, what my have been 'absolutely super' for some was 'downright horrifying' to others. When Strider had been called to face his fears, you imagine quite a few of the other Gryffindor's had reconsidered their 'bravery'. You can't help but sneer at them - it's not their fault they never faced Lord English, but it __is __their fault they are generally a waste of space.

"Hello class." He says calmly. The class gives back a jumbled chorus of various greetings. "Now, our last class was... interrupted. As you are aware, Boggarts are now being offered as an 'extra credit' class or for those who wish to confront their fears." You feared little. Your life was one of fear before SGRUB, and it was one of fear __during __SGRUB. Your existence hinged on hiding your blood, and now that was no longer necessary, you felt freer then you ever have before. You weren't afraid of a Boggart.

Not you, Karkat Vantas, Knight of Blood, and Adorabloodthirsty Friendleader.

One by one, the students confront their fears. A Clown. A skeleton. A flock of crows. Now it's your turn, and you step up to the Boggart. It stares at you silently, morphing slowly, as if trying to determine just what it was you feared. Then a sound that will haunt your dreams, a sickening

****CRACK****

Black glistening carapace gleams in the dim light, that murderous twisted sneer that was so familiar to you, those sharp teeth, and angry eyes. The rest of the class silently watches on, but you can already tell where this is going but you can't bring yourself to raise your wand. He destroyed your chance at happiness, forced you to endure the ordeal of the meteor just to survive but fuck it, a part of you still loved him unconditionally. Still clung to the camaraderie, the kinship. He sneers at you, and stalks in front of you, clothes rustling slightly.

Jack Noir. Spades Slick. __Sovereign Slayer__.

"The fuck you looking at, kid?" He snaps, and it's so __him __you want to die. But a flicker of green lightning ghosts over him, and his face stretches and wings sprout from his back. His arm fades, and a sword forms in his chest and a part of you is crying inside because his eyes don't recognise you anymore. "__Who the fuck are you?__" His hand tears the sword from his chest and it looks like he's about to show you his stabs but there's a

****CRACK****

and __Nepeta __slaps you across the face, hard and stinging, her once adoring eyes are filled with disgust. "You purverted __mutant __scum!" She hisses venomously, and you can't even process the words before there's another

****CRACK****

and the word __mutant __rings in your ears so badly, tears are beginning to form, and you can barely even register the __backhand __from Kanaya. "Filth such as yourself should just __die__." She declares, tone full of sickened bile from having to so much as __look at your twisted form, you, the crime against nature, against the hemospectrum the one who should never have existed__

****CRACK****

__and if it weren't for the game you wouldn't be this ___**_**thing **_**___would you__, and you risk looking back to see Eridan's face one of shame and revulsion, "I can't believve wwe wwere evver friends..." __it stings harder than you can put into words and you whimper at his sneer__

****CRACK****

And John's in front of you, kind, loving John, John who would hug a basilisk just because it was having a bad day. John who is glaring at you with such unfiltered hatred, you feel like you're about to burst into tears just __looking __at his face. "You __sicken __me, __Karkat__," He spits your name out as if the very act of saying it leaves the taste of garbage in his mouth, and you recoil physically, unable to stop yourself. "You call yourself a friend leader? __You let your friends die.__" You're going to break, it hurts so badly, the tears are flowing like mutant candy rain and your legs just give way from under you, and you fall onto your ass like an idiot __a mutant cherry blooded sick freaky idiot who should never have been hatched__.

A figure leaps in front of you defensively, and you can see __Tavros __of all people, his huge horns sticking out to either side, and he seems to have steeled himself for the

****CRACK****

and it's... Vriska? She seemed happy and cheerful, but in that Vriska-y way that made her look like she just kicked a puppy and liked it, and you can hear Vriska snort in the background because, seriously, Tavros, it's _j___ust__Vriska, but then she opens her mouth to speak and it clicks.

"Awww, Pupa, I'm so proud of you!"

Vriska isn't laughing anymore. Tavros waves his wand, with a __Riddikulus__ and Vriska's 'Marquise' outfit morphs into... Eridan's clothes. Okay, yeah, you can muster a weak laugh for that. Tavros barks out laughing and Vriska splutters. Everyone bursts into shocked laughter, snapped out of their trance. Yeah, __now __they react.

"Are you, okay, Karkat?" He says quietly, turning around to face you concerned, hand out to help you up.

Your name is Karkat Vantas, and you are so far from okay you couldn't see it with the most powerful telescope in Alternia.


	3. A Pale Imitation

The Slytherin's, predictably, are quiet. There is no loud sniggering, no bickering and laughter. They are calm, careful, and patient. Snakes waiting to strike, if you were feeling poetic, and generous for that matter. They aren't patient by choice, they are patient because they are, perhaps only a little for some, afraid.

Word of what is now known as the 'Strider Incident' spread faster than Mr Egbert's special icing mix (it was just Betty Crocker with a drop of brandy) under his careful ministrations. Dave was inconsolable, in his own cold, standoffish 'I'm perfectly fine what are you talking about Lalonde' way. It took Jade practically suffocating him in a hug before he stopped avoiding everyone, but he still seemed almost like a particularly skittish ninja deer, flash-stepping away when something startled him.

You wonder if Lupin was aware, if only minutely, of just how crippling and terrifying fears could be. They were by nature, fearful and scary, but common phobia's aside, some people feared very real things. Very real, very frightening things. You aren't surprised that Dave's fear had caused such a ruckus, nor are you particularly surprised as to the nature of it. But that is neither here nor there.

You are Rose Lalonde, and Defence Against the Dark Arts is about to begin.

You find the class relatively frivolous - you consorted with the Darkest of all Arts. What this silly little world considered 'Dark' could not even compare to what you had spoken with. What you had faced. But, it was a necessary class to graduate from this School, and you would be lying if you didn't enjoy the idea of being a wizard - well, __witch__, but that was semantics. Your ectobiological mother, Roxy, was certainly enthusiastic in her house of Ravenclaw. You had found your own sorting amusing but trivial.

They were just Houses.

The Professor began the class, motioning towards the rocking closet. Questions were asked, answers were given, points distributed. It was a Boggart, but everyone already guessed that. He made a point of informing everyone that confronting the Boggart was now considered completely optional, due to the 'Strider Incident'. Then he asked for a volunteer.

Nobody stepped forward. Typical.

You volunteered. He seemed slightly surprised (perhaps he wasn't expecting anyone to volunteer at all?), but he smiled cheerfully, and motioned for you to come forward, appending an extra five points as a reward. As if it mattered to you. You volunteered not to make House Slytherin look better, but for the sole purpose of confronting your fears. You had a sneaking suspicion what it would be, but you had to face it all the same. You doubted it would render you into a crying mess as it had done to your ectobiological 'sibling' but Strider's fears were something deeper than yours. You did not fear failing your friends as he did, and you did not fear the death of them - well, you __did__ but it wasn't the dominant fear, the all consuming one.

The Professor unlocked the door. It swings open, and the first thing everyone notices is the cold chill that washes over them.

It is not a Dementor chill, it is something more... ethereal. Nothing leaves the closet at first, but an eye opens, wide and gazing, with a hundred tiny pupils, swirling around in a maddening gaze. Tendrils and tentacles, thin and wispy like acrid black smoke, begin to slither out, and the __thing__practically oozes from the closet, many eyed gaze focused entirely on you. It begins to chirp and trill it's hideous song that gnaws on your ears and you can feel the faintest ghost of the Void brushing up against you as it sings.

You can hear the mutters and murmurs, the gasped '__what is that__' and the shocked stares weigh upon the back of your head but none of that matters because the Boggart-Horrorterror is looking at you and trilling softly.

You laugh.

The sound shocks everything in the room, everyone incapable of understanding what was so funny about this twisted terrifying thing of emptiness and void, and for a moment, they probably think you've gone mad but you haven't. This... this __thing__, this Boggart, it was no Horrorterror. It could not even __begin__ to comprehend their horrible majesty, their undying magnificence that ended stars and worlds, of the beings who dwelled in a place where Time and Space were as ephemeral as Life and Death. It was a pale imitation, a __mockery__, and you found it __hilarious__ that it even tried.

You laugh harder, and harder, and the Boggart recoils if struck, and your laughter is genuine, a feeling blooming in your chest you can't remember last feeling, and when you double with the sheer humour of the situation, the Boggart cannot take it anymore.

It explodes.

Your laughter dies away at that slowly, and you wipe away a tear, straightening your robes. The entire class is silent. The Professor is looking at you amazed. "... Terribly sorry. I hope nobody else wanted a go...?" You say lightly. They don't reply. If you had to hazard a guess, they've never seen a teenage girl laugh at a Horrorterror before.


	4. A Bard and his Muse

A\N: Whoops. Something went wrong in the upload and the entire formatting basically exploded and I didn't notice.

All fixed now.

This has to be one of my favourites, next to Vriska's.

* * *

It began with one of the trolls, Gamzee Makara you think his name was. Tall, lanky, constantly wearing this really weird face paint that made him resemble a clown. The Professor's had tried numerous times to try and get him to stop by taking away House points, but he didn't seem to care either way and carried on as if nothing was wrong. Only McGonagall continued to take points off, and it was five points for whenever she laid eyes upon him. She didn't press it any further, but you suspected the only reason she continued was due to her loyalty to the rules. Makara definitely didn't seem to care at all, even though the other Slytherin's did.

He also had a weird tendency to refer to everyone and everything as 'motherfucker'. At first, you felt insulted, but it was only later that you learned that he called everyone motherfucker and it in fact seemed to be a term of endearment? It wasn't an insult though, that was clear. Other then these two odd quirks, and the fact that he was a troll, Makara didn't stand out very much. He was quiet, friendly, and relaxed. Although that made him stand out as a Slytherin, he just seemed to... blend in. Like, consciously, you knew he was there, and he tended to hang out with Vantas and the other trolls, despite the fact that Vantas was a Gryffindor and the House of Lions did not get along with the House of Snake, but Vantas wasn't one to care about things like that - he seemed to hate everyone equally. But the Slytherins, you noticed, were not fond of Makara.

It was probably the way he lost so many points - he couldn't answer questions, his essay's were terrible, and his spellwork was worse. Whilst none of this bothered Makara, it was a severe annoyance for the Slytherin's (and a source of great amusement for the Gryffindor's). So that was probably why they had rigged this little prank. It was executed mostly by the upper years, and basically consisted of a Boggart one of them had found in a trunk, which they had transported to Gamzee's favourite spot - a small area by the lake. When he came by as usual on a Monday afternoon to lounge by and watch the waters, it was to a trio of green-robed young men, glaring down at him. A few others, such as yourself, gathered around to watch. You were close enough to hear them speak, and one of them mentioned something about 'revenge' and 'being unworthy'.

Your name is Harry Potter and you will never forget what you witnessed next.

The trio unlocked the trunk from a relatively safe distance, assured that they were further from the boggart than Makara was. The trunk swung open, and a hand thrust itself out, gripping the edge. Pale grey, with golden claws. A troll's hand. Something settles on your mind like a haze, a crackling cloud. A pair of long, spiralled horns poke out, followed by a mess of black hair. You realise with a start that the Boggart-troll that is clambering out of the trunk is Makara. It is... and it isn't. Boggart-Makara stands straighter, more rigid, tense. Free of his trunk, the Boggart grins at his doppelganger but it's not the usual lazy grin full of friendliness and welcoming apathy. It was cold, dark, purposeful and sinister. Everything about the Boggart-Makara screamed sinister, though, from the dark red-orange sclera of his eyes, to the way he seemed like a coiled spring, ready to strike at any moment. Then it began to speak.

"Hey there MOTHERFUCKER." His voice was quiet at first, calm, serene almost, before it abruptly switched to this piercing shout that made everyone flinch - in short, nothing like the warbling accent of the original. "WHAT THE FUCK IS ON? Ain't lookin' too happy to see your own motherfucking FINE SELF OF YOURS." You found yourself leaning closer, trying to hear them better, with more clarity. Gamzee was mysterious and airy, obscured by his own vague wording and phrasing. Nobody knew anything about Gamzee except that he was friendly to everyone but enjoyed spending time primarily with Vantas, and he in turn was one of the few people the nubby-horned troll did not treat with pure unadulterated disdain - or any disdain at all actually. Which was a miracle in so far as itself, for Karkat treated everyone with disdain, even his 'friends'.

"I AIN'T YOU, motherfucker." The Original retorted, shrinking back into himself, shoulders hunched more than normal, eyes narrowed to slits; his voice had taken on the same abrupt shifting mannerism of his clone. Had he fur, you have no doubt it would be raised, so hostile was his attitude. "You have eyes, don't ya? EARS TOO. I am you, motherfucker, AND YOU ARE ME." Original-Makara bared his teeth at that, and the Boggart-clone replied in kind. You, Hermione and Ron scooted a little closer, watching everyone else did the same, curious to see what would happen next.

You realised that Boggart-Makara wasn't identical in appearance - three thin lines, welling with grape-coloured blood streaked across his face as if he had been clawed by a vicious beast. Scars you remember faintly seeing on the original. His face paint was smudged and rough, almost worn. You weren't entirely sure what it meant that Makara's greatest fear was apparently a scarier version of himself.

"I ain't YOU! Maybe in the motherfuckin' past BUT NOT NOW... not ever. Not ever again." He growled low at this, and you could see the way his shoulders tensed as if to strike. "Again? MOTHERFUCKER there ain't no again. There wasn't any end. YOU DIDN'T ALL UP AND STOP BEING ME, and I ain't never stopped being you." Boggart-Makara sneered at that, shoulders rolling with the movement. "Or did ya forget? I AM YOUR DESTINY! I am your future and ALWAYS MOTHERFUCKING WILL BE. I am what you were MOTHERFUCKIN' HATCHED TO BE and that ain't ever fuckin' changing."

Gamzee raised his wand now, shaking and trembling. "You're lying." He hissed, low and dangerous. "You always motherfucking were. FILLING MY THINKPAN WITH YOUR ROT, your disease. You ain't my motherfuckin' destiny and YOU AIN'T EVER GONNA BE! RIDDIKULUS!" The force of the spell is incredible, the raw magic washing over everyone.

The Boggart is flung back into the trunk, and the trunk itself is flung back by the impact of the Boggart. Boggart and trunk both go tumbling down into the lake, and nobody makes a move. Nobody can find the composure to. Gamzee turns to the trio of older Slytherin's, looking all the part of a murderous beast about to go on a rampage.

A hand pulls on his shoulder, down and turning him away, and a part of you wonders who is crazy enough to lay a hand on him, when he practically radiated murder, but that feeling is only impounded when the hand slaps him offhandedly, casually. The hand itself belongs to Karkat Vantas, and shortly after delivering the blow, he pulls the taller troll into a tight hug, crushing the other male's face into his shoulder, whispering something you couldn't hear, but sounded suspiciously like shooshing noises. The purpleblooded troll for his part seemed startled at first, but relaxes almost instantly, sinking to his knees and reciprocating the hug, letting the smaller troll rub soothing circles into his back. For a moment, you think all is over, but he glares at the trio of Slytherin's and they flinch. Glare isn't the right word - it's more like a concentrated ragebeam full of pure loathing. It makes Snape's repertoire of expressions seem loving and tender. Even the ones directed at you - especially the ones directed at you! Compared to the expression on Vantas's face, Snape's sneers were the kind, fatherly smile of a doting parent.

Before Vantas can do anything, you hear the startled screech of McGonagall, shattering the quiet shocked atmosphere with a cry of "WHAT IN MERLIN'S NAME HAPPENED HERE?"

She isn't alone. Makara's outburst of magic has drawn most of the Professors, all of which are surveying the area speculatively. Snape's eyes linger on you a second longer than you personally believe they should, and he sneers at you. You have no doubt he is concocting a version of events where you are at fault for everything wrong in the world. Hermione, naturally, is the first to speak. The assembled Professor's do not look the tiniest bit happy about the fact that a trio of students attempted to bully another one, from their own house no less (Snape, you are surprised, looked especially furious at this), with their worst fears.

When McGonagall begins to tear them a new one, Snape does not interfere, only giving them a cold look that promised it wouldn't be over with just her. Vantas did not cease his ragebeam stare for a second.

You would not be surprised if they didn't survive the night, let alone the next hour.


	5. A Mother Knows

A\N: Editing and formatting these is tiresome. I wish it would carry over better.

Enjoy Vriska's Boggart! Or don't enjoy it. Weep. Curl up in a corner and weep.

* * *

'Extra Credit Boggart' Classes had been rescheduled again. First it was Strider, who faced his friends calling him mean names. Then that weird girl, Lalonde? You didn't care too much about her name, only that she was apparently a snarky broad and John's friend; that and you were fairly certain she and Kanaya made out more than once. She apparently faced a Horrorterror and _laughed_ it to death. This was, of course, after Karkat got slapped around and sneered at by Jack of all people. Then Tavros_ had_ to show the world his great big whooping fear. He was afraid of, and this still rankled you, _your praise_.

What, was being proud of the dumbass so bad a thing? Not that you were ever going to be! He was so useless! You thought being in the House of Lions might mean maybe, just maybe he had grown a spine but nope! Still useless old Nitram. The only thing you could admit he was doing right was that he was at least standing up for himself -_ if_ only to you. A good start, but misdirected. You were trying to help him after all. But all of that was secondary to what would be the third time the Gryffindor's were convened to face a Boggart. Not 'The' Boggart, as Lalonde had apparently put an end to that. You had to hand it to her, being able to laugh a horrorterror, even a fake fakey fake one, took cajones. _You_ though, you were mostly interested to see what this stupid monster (HA! They called it a 'monster'!) had to offer you.

You are Vriska Serket, and you are fairly confident that you fear nothing.

Professor Lupin looks haggard and worn. You don't believe for a second that he is eager to begin this class. It has, however, dwindled, and he was forced to combine it with the Slytherins. That grated on everyone's nerves, yours included. Being in the same room as Ampora rubbed you the wrong way. At least he had stopped trying to blackflirt with you - his attempts were so bad, you almost pitied him. Almost. Thankfully, however, everyone was subdued and quiet, probably likely to do with the very recent news and gossip. Some of the older Slytherins, a trio of Sixth Years if your source was correct (it probably wasn't), had unleashed a Boggart on Makara. You knew he wasn't liked by his House, in an almost ironically shitty twist because just about everyone else liked him, but apparently nobody had thought for a few seconds (something that doesn't surprise you in the slightest) about hmm, _maybe_ Boggarts can take really frightening forms? Lalonde's had become a Horrorterror, a being that embodied the Void. You weren't sure of the details, but apparently, and this you actually found interesting, Makara's Boggart was himself. Only creepier and scarier.

You had naturally drawn a clearer conclusion that these numbskulls surrounding you. If Gamzee was facing a second version of himself, it probably wasn't a very nice version of himself. He was a sopor addled idiot, but even you would admit he could be scary when he was mad. The events were just another notch in the list of '_Maybe this was a huge fucking bad idea_' for the Professor's class but Boggart's were a part of the curriculum apparently and well, it's not like the Ministry could be wrong?

_Fucking. Idiots._

The Professor shambles in, all shabby robes and unkempt beard. He looks more tired than usual, and nobody with a brain cell would be surprised at that. He's probably longing for the Boggart classes to be over, and maybe he won't be confronted with the horrible things your teeny tiny adolescent thinkpans could conjure. And he was supposed to teach you how to defend yourself against Monsters. Puh-lease!

"Hello and welcome to a uh, another supplementary lesson on... Boggarts..." The class is quite small, even for a combined one. It's not so much that people don't want to confront their fears, you note, it's that they don't want to confront other peoples fears. You suppose if you were a weak little human, you'd probably do the same thing. You aren't a weak little human, you are a strong, determined troll and you weren't letting something so simple as a Boggart scare you away. You were fairly certain you knew what it would turn out to be. Lord English? Bec Noir? Hell, it might even be Pyrope and that fucking coin of hers. Gog, you'd never live that down wouldn't you?

The Professor asks for volunteers, and naturally, you step up. From the corner of your eye, you notice Ampora do the same, but you were always one step ahead. Quite literally this time. _Suck it, brinebreather_!

The Boggart this time, is located in a larger wardrobe than before. It rattles angrily, and you smirk. Bring it. Lupin unlocks the door. Like before it swings open.

Unlike before, a white leg steps out, large and hairy. A _familiar_ white leg.

And then another. And another. And another. Chittering teeth click-clack against themselves, and beady eyes watch you carefully from within the wardrobe. Slowly, the figure draws itself out, purposefully, gracefully. But it never ceases watching you. Studying you. Appraising you.

You remember those eyes. Those piercing eyes, those piercing octuplet of oculars, gazing at, through and into you all at once. The chittering teeth, the eight fuzzy legs... the large, gargantuan really, body. The name leaves your lips before you can even think of stopping it.

"_Mom_."

There's a murmur from the other students - you just called a giant white spider your mother of course there's a fucking murmur from the students. The ignorant fucks probably have no concept of what a lusus is. You don't ponder that further though, because Spidermom is still gazing at you.

There is no recognition in her eyes. _"Dear... dear, little dear..._" She croons at you, in that soft, reassuring tone you had heard a thousand times, the tone that haunted your dreams and quelled your protests. The voice that you could never truly forget. The voice of your Mother before she was about to feed. "_What a fine little child..._" She whispers again, and her forelegs caress you and you want to lean into the touch, you really do but you can't. You have an image to maintain.

"Mom... it's me..." You whisper back, and although her eight eyes blink in that curious way of hers, where they never all close at the same time, there is no 'ah', no 'oh', no noise of acknowledgement. "It's... Vriska..." You whisper again, a little louder this time, maybe she didn't hear you, _maybe_ she just didn't make out the words because she _has_ to know you, she has to know it's _you_, Vriska, her daughter, her troll…

But she doesn't.

Not even for a second does she show any sign of thinking '_Oh it's Vriska_'. She just croons at you and moves closer and a little part of you starts to crack. "Mom...? It's me!" You say, this time a little more forcefully, but still no reaction. "There, there... it'll be over soon..." No. No. This... this isn't happening. She'll recognise you any minute, she has to recognise you! She can't forget you! She can't! She... she just can't. You'd never forget her so how can she forget you? It wasn't fair. _It wasn't fair_. "Don't you remember me?!" You cry, as she leans in closer, and you can see the venom glistening on her fangs. Paralytic. You wouldn't feel a thing. Nothing except betrayal. She was your lusus and she forgot you. She is close enough now, close enough that you can tell what's coming next but you can't move. She's going to remember, you say to yourself, just quiet enough that nobody else can hear you. She has to remember. You're her daughter! _But she doesn't and she won't and she never will again_. The teeth are wide and about to snap.

Something inside you **breaks**.

A pair of hands pull you back as her teeth snap shut where your head used to be. The Professor stands in front of you now, protectively, and waves the Boggart back into the wardrobe. You are numb. Why are you numb? Eridan is speaking to you. He seemed... concerned? The Professor is also speaking but you can't hear what he's saying either. There's a noise in your ears like rushing water, like static and all you can think is that she didn't remember you.

Eridan is waving his hand in front of you, but you can't even focus on that. You can barely feel his sleeve wiping across your face, and you don't notice when they are stained a light cerulean. At some point it begins to sink in, and you flop bonelessly into a chair. _She was your lusus and she didn't remember you at all_.

Your name is Vriska Serket, and you have been Forgotten.


	6. The Leopard Prince

A\N: You'd figure I could keep a steady update schedule considering it's already done and complete. But no. I'm terrible at being consistent with anything.

If I'm perfectly honest, I'm not a huge fan of the formatting on . I'd prefer to have large breaks between each 'crack' for emphasis but it just autoformats them away. Oh well.

* * *

Boggarts, you muse, are rapidly becoming an avatar of fear. Fitting, seeing as that __is __what they are, but now the very mention of a Boggart has your students startled. They fear fear itself now - not their own, but that of their peers. Little children such as themselves, you cannot blame them. You have not witnessed the Boggarts first hand, but from what you have learned, the current generation of Third Year students had some truly extreme fears. Fears you wouldn't expect them to have. Children their age should fear Clowns, Spiders, or just plain Monsters. Not being rejected by everyone you loved. Not failing everyone. Those were fears you understood well, and even though they were held by Gryffindor's, you couldn't help but sympathise a little.

Perhaps you had been a tad more lenient on Strider and Vantas afterwards. A __tad, __you had a reputation to maintain after all. Makara's fear, however, startled you. Again, you only had second hand information (from Granger, typically), but apparently had an altercation with some sort of sinister doppelganger version of himself. Everyone at the scene who had witnessed all agreed that Boggart-Makara was possibly the most frightening person they have ever witnessed. Even __Potter__, the stupid fool, full of stubborn bravado, conceded that Boggart-Makara was scarier than Voldemort. Part of you wanted to chalk that up to the fact that Potter had not yet seen the Dark Lord at his worst, but the thought alone was worrying.

What was it that Makara feared so greatly about himself? Had you witnessed it first hand, you would've been able to draw conclusions, connect the dots, as was your job as Dumbledore's 'Agent' (and you so dearly loathed the role), but with only the statements of students, __ignorant children__, nothing you could draw from the events was concrete. You had little doubt that Granger, the insufferable but sharp little lion, was already drawing conclusions. Sound conclusions too. But she would press the issue, as she always did. Poking her nose where it didn't belong... __their __noses, for what Granger knew, it could be said that Weasley and Potter also knew and before long, the 'Golden Trio' would come to some sort of concocted belief about Makara.

You made a note to have a session with Makara, and attempt to counsel him. You were aware of Troll relationship dynamics, and loathe as your were to admit it, you would probably have to call in Vantas as well. But if you were going to do that, you may as well hold a 'Boggart Counselling' session, and invite Strider and Lalonde - not that Lalonde really needed counselling. She had apparently and rather abruptly _l___aughed __her Boggart to death without so much as casting the Riddikulus. One to watch, that Rose Lalonde, and you were simultaneously proud to have her in your House, and wary. Her Boggart was, from the descriptions given, some sort of eldritch terror. That she laughed at what she feared meant one thing - the Boggart had failed to encapsulate her Fear.

It happened, occasionally, when one feared something sufficiently powerful or magical, that a Boggart could not replicate it perfectly. Potter's Boggart-Dementor's, for example, could not properly generate the aura of despair. Lalonde's boggart had clearly failed spectacularly - either it was a weak boggart, which you doubted as it's Dementor form was not insignificant, or whatever it was that Lalonde feared was __very __powerful and she had personal experience from which to measure the Boggart against.

You did not want to meet whatever it was she feared in a dark alley. Or at all, if you could help it.

But Lupin was offering a __fourth __Boggart class, this time, personal lessons consisting of small groups of students who volunteered to confront the Boggarts together. Group confrontation was important as it weakened a Boggart's grasp, but fewer and fewer students were willing to face other people's boggarts. Various clumps had gathered together, however, and remained assured of their ability to face them. The Golden Trio, naturally, formed one such group, and you were pleased to note that the Slytherin's had divided themselves into little groups based on their familiarity with each other. That was good. Familiarity would mean you would be better equipped at dealing with the other person's fears or even predicting it. You insisted on being present for any Slytherin confrontation. Second hand information would not cut it anymore. You had to see this spate of boggarts first hand. To better understand your students, your little snakes.

That was why you were gazing curiously (spitefully curious, in order to keep up your image) at the small duo in front of you. A Gryffindor and a Slytherin. Both of them trolls, one short, one vaguely taller, you fixed your gaze on the Gryffindor - Vantas. He was not here to confront his fears, having already done so. He was here for moral support.

Specifically, moral support for Eridan Ampora.

A seadweller, and something of a troubled case from what you could tell. A powerful wizard, he had demonstrated a strange raw energy he had brushed off as 'troll-related' but you didn't buy that for a second. He had used it to demolish part of the Dungeons, and that had earned him nearly an entire years worth of detentions with you. You understood his reasons however - if someone had insulted Lily Evans to your face when you were younger, you might as well have done the same, had you the raw power he seemed to possess.

That accursed fool, Lupin, asked Ampora if he was ready to begin. At his oddly accented affirmation, he unlocked the chest.

You are Severus Snape, and despite all your plans and preparations, you were not prepared for this.

The figure wafts out of the chest, uplifted on a pair of jagged and impressive looking purple wings, thin and transparent, like the gossamer wings of a fairy. It's adorned with bright yellow and pale cream clothes, looking almost like some sort of Medieval courtier. Vantas tensed, but shoots curious looks at Ampora - he didn't expect this either. From Ampora's face, neither did he.

A part of you remembers Makara's Boggart, and you wonder if this is somehow similar. It certainly is on the surface - both are facing themselves, but Ampora's doppelganger is very much different from Ampora himself.

"Magic? Seriously? I thought wwe wwere better than this." It speaks disdainfully, piercing eyes staring down at the Slytherin, wings beating slowly to keep him aloft. Ampora bristled. "Wwhat's wwrong wwith magic?" He snaps, hand tightening on his wand. A part of you thinks he should just banish the Boggart and be over with it, but you want to see the Fear itself. You want to understand.

"Aside from the fact that it's fake?" Boggart-Ampora sneers, and the real version sneers right back. Vantas seem lightly confused, and Lupin seems glad that nobody is currently crying. "Does this look fake to you?" That only earns a derisive snort, and another flutter of the wings. "Wwhat are you evven tryin' to provve, anywway?" Now things are getting interesting. The fear is psychological, mental. This is why you insisted on being present.

Ampora goes to speak but the Boggart cuts him off. "You think you can just make evverythin' better? That you can just be forgivven? You fucked up." Ampora did something, something that haunts him. Something he doesn't want to confront. You imagine that whatever it is, it's the new form that comes with a

****CRACK****

Peixes' blood is a rich fuchsia. You were already aware of this, but to see it in person is different. It runs in rivulets, tyrian streaks on her bright green and cyan skirt. You've seen the horror of war, so the sight of the large hole in her abdomen does not shock as much it really should.

"__Or did you forget what you did?__" Her voice is quiet, steely. Determined. Her vast mass of wavy hair seems to ripple behind her as if caught in the ocean tides, and her usually kind eyes are teeming with disappointment... and disgust. "I guess it's my fault, for believing you were even capable of __changing__." Ampora doesn't move, his body so rigid you'd almost believe he was petrified. Deep purple blood drips from where his claws have dug into his palms. Lupin looks like he's about to interfere but Vantas fixes him with a look. You share the troll's sentiment. You doubt Ampora wasn't aware of what the nature of his fear was - he chose to come here to confront it. Interrupting now would be similar to letting a broken bone set wrong.

"You cod've bream __brilliant__. But you __ruined it all__." You can almost swear his claws are grinding against his bones now. "Are you angry, Eridan?" She whispers coldly, gazing at him with frighteningly frigid eyes. "Then kill me, __again__. Even after all your __talk __about _'___howw sorry you wwere'__, you'd do it again in a heartbeat... wouldn't you? __Face it__, we both know you haven't __changed __at-"

"__Riddikulus__." The wavy hair begins to tangle itself into gordian knots all around Boggart-Peixes, wrapping her tightly until nothing is visible except a large, tangled mess of hair. There is a tense silence. "May I be excused to vvisit Madam Pomfrey, Professor?" Ampora intones lightly, and Lupin can only give him a stunned nod. Both he and Vantas depart in stony silence, leaving you to your thoughts.

You are Severus Snape, and you have a lot to think about.


	7. Come Swing From My Gallows

A\N: The last actual Boggart of What you are in the Dark! Following this is the epilogue and then the beginnings of the still unfinished sequel 'Safe in the Dark', which is more a look at how the kids/trolls are doing post-Boggarts, as well as the general reaction from various members of the Hogwarts Community.

* * *

Colours hold flavours and scents, things others were blind to (pardon the pun). Your Lusus showed you how to unlock those hidden secrets, and your life since then was a kaleidoscope of taste and smell, a cornucopia of flavour. And Hogwarts was a medley of colours and sights, a beautiful and delicious mix of fragrant fruits and rich flavours.

Your personal favourite are the Gryffindor robes, but your own delectable licorice and honey Hufflepuff colours are not bad themselves. You needle the Coolkid and Tavros for visits to the frankly indulgent Gryffindor common room whenever you can, even if it means dealing with Serket. That your presence irritates her is fine, however, as you are fairly sure the two of you are currently dancing around some sort of caliginous fling. Neither of you have broached the subject, but you have caught Karkles complaining to Mr's Chocolate Fudge and Grape Blast several times that the two of you should just 'HATESNOG ALREADY, GOG DAMN IT'.

Your delicate nose, however, catches the scent of something you remember vaguely. __Fear__. Raw, bitter and tangy, fear. It doesn't carry the scent of anyone in particular... rather, it seems to almost be fear itself, isolated. Distilled. You cannot help yourself. You are curious as to the source of such a pure aroma, however unpleasant. Fear is an acquired taste, and one you never really enjoyed - you sought it however, as fear was a drug to the Cruellest Bar. Fear was weakness and Legislacerator's were sharks hunting for blood in the ocean of crime.

Down a corridor, up some stairs. Hogwarts shifts and changes under your very feet, but never do you lose the scent. Something is amiss, and only the greatest (future) Legislacerator ever can solve the mystery! If you're honest with yourself, you're just bored. Licking your text books does not make them any less obtuse and ridiculous - as a matter of fact, it makes them worse. Parchment and ink is not a good flavour, even tinged with the sweet and sour flavour of knowledge and lore.

It's... a closet. Another whiff tells you it's probably a broom closet but the sheer smell of fear is simply overwhelming. The mystery will be concluded. You open the door. It's locked, but you know the basic spell for unlocking. Alohamora, a necessity for all your sneaking around and mystery-solving needs.

It swings open.

The fear gives way to something else. The smell of wealth, of cold iron and something painfully familiar that you can't quite put your claw on fills your nostrils. You can smell... a caegar. A troll caegar. A __familiar__ troll caegar. Grasped between familiar claws. Blueberry fills your nostrils, tinged with bitter frustration and wrenched disappointment. Oh. __Oh__.

You are Terezi Pyrope, and you just stumbled into a Boggart.

The caegar flips in the air and clatters to the ground, the sound ringing in your ears. You can hear the Boggart take a step closer, smell it's sneering face. The way it wears __her__ face, and you want to strike it, stab it, because how __dare__ it even claim such a thing. You growl, deep and low, and your claws reach for the sword cane that isn't there. "Tell me, __Pyrope__," It hisses at you __in her voice and it only makes you angrier as the cold feeling in your stomach gurgles __and it leans in close, and it's breath is just as you remember in your nightmares and dreams alike. Cold and unforgiving.

"How does it taste? Your __Justice__." She spits the word out like it's the most disgusting thing she's ever tasted and you can feel the cold edge of Marquise's Blade against your throat. You flinch slightly at the tone, recoiling at the words, but you do not answer. It's an illusion, nothing more, a fake. "Killing your best friend in cold blood..." She continues darkly, and the blade digs in a little deeper. Boggarts cannot physically affect you, but they can make it feel like they can.

She was going to cause the deaths of everyone. You remembered it vividly, watching the sequence of events that would've caused the failure of everything you worked for. Gamzee, Kanaya, Eridan, Feferi, Equius, Nepeta, Karkat, Sollux... they all would've died. You __had__ to kill her you said to yourself. You always said that to yourself. You __had __to, you had no other choice. __But maybe you didn't have to. Your powers weren't complete you weren't the fully realised Seer of Mind and maybe your vision was incomplete.__

"And calling it __the law__." Her tone bites at you, nipping at your insecurities and your flaws and you almost marvel at the efficiency of it, but it's directed at you and you really can't appreciate the way it breaks you down. "Did you even __try__, to save me, Pyrope? Did you even __try, __just for a__second__, to see if there was a way to save me?" She steps closer again and you step back. Space. You need space. __Space to run away and hide right?__

"I __never__ betrayed you Pyrope. __You__ betrayed me. __I__ would've tried to save you. But you didn't even care, did you? Called it __Justice__ and left it at that." You want to deny it, shout it's not true, but your voice fails you and all that comes out is a soft whimper. Her sneer reeks of cold fury and spiteful hate, and you can't find the strength to defend yourself. "__Neophyte Redglare would spin in her grave__."

Your name is Terezi Pyrope, and it is a few hours until someone finds you, passed out and tear stained.


	8. Epilogue

A\N: And that concludes 'What you are in the Dark'. Thank you for reading! Stay tuned for when I get around to uploading what I've already written of it's sequel, 'Safe in the Dark'.

* * *

You weren't expecting him to come to you about this, all quiet determination and soft spoken demeanour. To be fair, you weren't expecting _anyone_. But there was he was, yellow and black robes, scarf wrapped around his neck and that quietly determined face that convinced you that even if you refused, he would simply find another teacher, another way to learn. But what surprises you most is just exactly what he asks.

"Teach us how to defend ourselves against Dementors."

'Us'. 'Ourselves'. Not just him, but a group of students. A surprisingly, large group. All of which wanted to combat Dementors, to learn to how to protect from them. You suppose you couldn't really blame them. They _were_ soulsucking monsters who drained the happiness away just by being there. You had informed him that the necessary charm was ridiculously high-level and difficult to perform. He didn't care, and neither did the others he claimed.

"Teach us it." He said. He didn't demand, nor did he really ask. You had already intended on teaching Harry, so you supposed you could make a group out of it - a club even. Make it an extra-curricular activity.

And so what was known as the 'Patronus Club' was born.

You were not expecting the turn-out. Students of every house, mingled before you, the one thing they all shared was that they seemed to be friends with John Egbert, the Hufflepuff who had asked you in the first place. This was the 'us' you concluded then. A surprisingly impressive 'us'.

From Gryffindor, you could see the trademark shades of Dave Strider, and the boisterous exuberance of Jake English. Tavros Nitram's nervous laugh occasionally rang in the air whenever Karkat Vantas said something he must've found particularly amusing, but Vriska Serket was busy sneering at an equally sneer-y Eridan Ampora. His fellow Slytherin's, Rose Lalonde and Dirk Strider remained quiet and almost standoffish, but both of them were beset by their respective friends. Gamzee Makara was staring dazedly at nothing, and Sollux Captor was busy talking to the Ravenclaws, Aradia Megido and Roxy Lalonde. Flirting, if the little smirk he had and Roxy's giggling was anything to by. Kanaya Maryam was quietly listening to Karkat rant about something or other whilst Equius Zahhak allowed himself to be tackle-hugged by the excited Hufflepuff, Nepeta Leijon. John Egbert was laughing at something Dave said to Terezi Pyrope, and the blind girl cackled in turn, whilst Feferi Peixes engaged in animated chatter with Jane Crocker.

Harry for his part, had managed to wrangle his best friends into joining him, but they too seemed surprised at the sheer size of the 'Club', and it's almost impressive interlocking connections. Nearly everyone aside from the Golden Trio was known to associate with everyone else, regardless of House affiliations.

Coughing lightly, you brought their attention to you and began to explain just what would be occuring in this class. Naturally, you could not bring a real Dementor to practice on, so this club would mostly be based on theoretical knowledge of the Patronus charm. The method was actually rather simple, you lectured, you merely had to point your wand, say the incantation 'Expecto Patronum' and focus on your happiest memories. The hard part was focusing on memories happy enough to produce the Patronus.

Deciding that the classroom you had chosen was too small to contain everyone practicing, you suggested everyone move outdoors before beginning to practice. Reconvening near the lake, you repeated the incantation and once you were sure they had it down, allowed them to begin.

After about an hour of attempts with no avail, you smiled at everyone and dismissed the club until next week.

Your name is Professor Lupin, and this Defence Against the Dark Arts Professorship only got more and more interesting.


End file.
